


процесс

by tolomer



Category: Metro Last Light, metro 2033
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolomer/pseuds/tolomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artyom and Pavel are on their way through the Red Line; Pavel is soon to carry out his plot, but things don't go entirely as planned...gore, graphic sex and language, in far-future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teatr

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: This fic is being almost entirely reworked; the base content is very much the same, but the writing is being completely redone now that it's been a year since I last updated it. I'm happy to be back and continuing this fic! To continue the theme of new beginnings, the fic is also now titled процесс, changed from the former title жаждущий. Chapter one's redux is somewhat shorter than the original, but I believe the quality of the writing and semantics of the piece are far improved. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Warnings for alcohol, this chapter.

After seemingly endless and substantially rude pushing and shoving, Artyom at last made it to just below the Teatr stage; right in front. The crowd behind him was growing irritable and some of the viewers were even starting to boo at him, “Down in front!” they’d start to shout. Artyom wanted more than anything to sprint straight into the dressing rooms, where Pavel had said to meet him, but the congestion of the stage was suffocating. As he finally weaseled his way past a drunk-enough older man, a giant gloved paw-hand clamped down on his shoulder, tugging him backwards. That same hand pulled Artyom around to meet Pavel, wearing an even wider smile than he had when he left.

Pavel huffed out a quiet chuckle, “a little girl-hungry are we,” he joked, cocking a brow in reference to Artyom darting for the dressing rooms.

He patted Artyom’s shoulder twice and pushed him forward a bit, shuffling ahead and through the exit towards the dressing rooms. The separating curtain fell behind Pavel, leaving Artyom alone to stew in his embarrassment and frustration. The theater was loud and though the Artyom-focused boos died down when they saw him with Pavel, he wanted desperately to leave. Artyom pulled aside the curtain and walked into the long, poorly lit hall connecting the stage and audience to the actors’ dressing rooms. Pavel stood about two metres away, and was taking his sweet time walking around the corner. Artyom thought about refuting Pavel’s comment but… had it been too long? Would it be awkward to say something now would it be _weird_? _Probably_ … he thought. Artyom let it go and picked up into a light jog left around the corner, only to smack face-first into the back of Pavel’s head.

“Oof!”

Pavel lurched forward a bit but caught himself and laughed harder than ever before, turning around and resting his hand on Artyom’s shoulder again, this time to balance himself.

“Artyomka, you—” he was interrupted by his own laughter a few times, “—you lost? Like a lost duckling running after its mama, eh!”

Pavel kept laughing as Artyom shook his hand from his shoulder and dusted off the front of his pants, huffing and puffing, trying to detract from how red his face was. _A lost fucking— why I oughta_ … He tried to sound nonchalant about it, as though he had reveled in the joke just as much as Pavel had. His stomach growled. Pavel probably heard it.

“Bahaha okay, okay D’Artagnan, I’m sorry, _mne ochen’ zhal’_ , no mean to insult.”

Artyom didn’t like being treated or spoken to like a teenager, but the apology was well-intended and, lucky for Pavel fell on sympathetic ears. Artyom smiled weakly and moved to shuffle past him and into the changing rooms, when Pavel’s hand moved to his chest, keeping him where he was. Artyom looked up and over to try and gauge the other’s intention. Pavel just put a finger to his own pursed lips, “Shh” he hissed. He beckoned Artyom to follow him then, tilting his head in the direction of the final entry curtain. Pavel disappeared through the doorway and Artyom followed. Inside was something out a pre-war magazine, full of flashy lights and polished well-fitted mirrors. There was fur everywhere, crimson red scarves and tall-heeled shoes— Artyom didn’t know what to think of the place, it was something out of his wildest fantasies of what life in the metro could be like.

“Girls! Good to see you all!” Pavel distracted himself with smalltalk, giving Artyom a chance to take it all in for himself. He walked to the far end of the room, to the next door; it was an old saloon-style wicker door with weak hinges, but a bead curtain obscured whatever was behind it. Above the door, and lining every mirror, were small circular LED lights, in Artyom’s mind a complete waste of energy. After so many shifts as the light-keeper in VDNKh it was hard to accept that other stations may have the power to spare. He took off his right glove and ran his fingers across the trim that lined the doorway; it was glittery and rough to the touch, but beautiful even if the paint _was_ peeling.

“Artyom!”

Pavel calling out to him shattered his daydream and brought him back to reality a bit; was it time to go already? Pavel trotted over to him and reassuringly placed a hand on the small of his back; he must’ve caught his disappointed look. “Don’t worry my friend, we’ve got one last stop before the final stretch of our journey, consider it a treat from me.” Pavel brought Artyom through the little wooden doors, and the bead curtain, to reveal a tavern-looking enclosure with a few old tables, and a fully stocked bar. Artyom’s eyes shot open real wide— _a real bar? Here?_ Teatr just got more and more unbelievable. So many thoughts raced through Artyom’s head, he’d seen so many foreign and beautiful things today, all within an hour! Alcohol for sale en masse, in an actual— well, sort of restaurant! Artyom took a seat at one of the metal tables near the entrance and placed his sack on the floor next to the chair and removed his hat. They hadn’t been able to really relax for the last few hours and it was good to get off of his feet for a while.

“Oi chuvak, I’m grabbing a drink for the both of us from the counter, sit tight.”

Artyom took a deep breath, trying to conceal just how frazzled Pavel’s last few stunts had left him.

“Alright, alright. I should tell you though, I don’t have any—”

“It’s on me, really!”

Pavel spun around, calling out to the bartender for four rounds (more than enough for the two of them…) and, lively as ever, spun back, slamming both hands on the table. Artyom felt his arms shake beneath him, and nearly felt queasy again. He was just considering talking about Pavel’s _girl hungry_ comment when the drinks hit the table. Pavel reached out a tin cup, filled with a partially unrecognizable sludge, and clinked it against Artyom’s. He cried out some sort of toast to life, living, happiness and something or other, and took a rather large swig of the elixir. Artyom looked down into it, examining it more than he should’ve. Seeing Pavel enjoy himself so much, Artyom figured it couldn’t be all bad, and tentatively took a sip. It was stronger than Pavel lead on, and burned his lips and throat. Artyom’s face contorted into a painful pucker, earning him a laugh from his more-experienced companion. From then on, he stuck to quick and small swigs— much akin to shots he’d taken back home. Maybe half an hour passed, when Artyom’s ears began to buzz; his head spun, and his hands began to shake. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, since he and Zhenya were teenagers sneaking off with his uncle's bottle of pre-war bourbon. It dredged up a lot of memories for Artyom... Zhenya back home, _sukhoi_ , VDNKh and their fate, his excursion last year... it was all a lot to handle. Had he been repressing it...? Had it really not bothered him as much as he thought? Was— was he a monster? When Artyom’s head sank to the table in exhaustion, Pavel produced a small glass vial from his sleeve and uncorked the top.

“Pavel…” Artyom interrupted. Pavel shoved the glass back into his sleeve, out of sight.

“Yes, Artyomka?” he batted his eyelashes a few too many times for comedic effect. Artyom pulled his head back up and looked right at Pavel; he looked so tired, his eyes red and puffy, and his nose was dripping. Had— had he been crying…?

“Is… something wrong, d’Artagn— Artyom?” Artyom sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, followed by a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“Pavel what if I never get home— what, what if—” he could barely speak in his drunken stupor. “What if this is it? If the mutants take me— take us! Pavel I’m— I…” he started to tear up again, and his face fell into his hands. Pavel sat completely frozen, unsure of how to handle the situation, unsure of how to console well, anyone.

“Pavel I don’t want to die!” Artyom finally blurted out, perhaps a bit too loudly. His face fell back to the table and he quietly wept into his folded arms so no one could hear him; only Pavel could tell he was still crying by the way his shoulders bounced and shook. He didn’t know what to do… he moved the glass vial up his sleeve back and forth between his forefinger and his thumb before decidedly hiding it in a potted plant to the left of their table. _A-another time, right_?

 

He didn’t know if he could, now.

 

 

 


	2. Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artyom wakes up in a local hotel, his head throbbing; what's Pavel's plan? Where are they going?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This fic is being almost entirely reworked; the base content is very much the same, but the writing is being completely redone now that it's been a year since I last updated it. I'm happy to be back and continuing this fic! To continue the theme of new beginnings, the fic is also now titled процесс, changed from the former title жаждущий. Chapter two's redux is somewhat similar to the original, but with some of the kinks ironed out. Thank you for reading!

Artyom awoke slowly, and with significant effort. His eyes screwed themselves shut the second they opened, though it did nothing for his excruciating headache. Every time they opened, a sharp twang shot through his forehead, forcing them shut again. At first breaths, Artyom noticed his pillow smelled of two things: cigarettes and dried saliva; though the smell of tobacco was faint, compared to the grimey taste of his own tongue. Lazily lapping at his gums, Artyom felt his neck strain, and wished only to fall back asleep and ignore the throbbing— though... first he wanted to know exactly where he’d been sleeping. He managed to flip himself onto his back, which rewarded him with a cool release over the whole left side of his body, which had quite obviously been pressed flat against the hard cot all night. His forearm, whole leg, and the side of his face were all a soft red and hot to the touch. Suffering through a few short breaths, he cracked his tired eyes open again, and recognized nothing. He saw the roof of what he assumed was a hotel tent. Three other guests were staying on the opposite side of the enclosure— two seemed acquainted and the third was still asleep. Artyom couldn’t make out the details in the faces of the two men opposite him, but the taller one was tying up large boots— military-grade steel-toe, he assumed. The younger stood infront of the taller, blocking out his face, and buttoning a quilted down coat; standard throughout the metro. Artyom paid little attention to the two, but moved his attention to the third— they were in the opposite corner, alone, and the weak electrical lighting on the “hotel” floor was hardly enough to reveal any detail. Regardless, lucky enough for Artyom he spotted an old analogue clock infront of his cot, on an old nightstand inside the tent. There was no luxury of guessing the time underground, and a reliable clock was worth more than its weight in rounds to most. It was only eight a.m.— how Artyom had managed to wake up so early on his own, what with this headache was beyond him. Maybe it was his (usually) rigorous military schedule. He propped himself up on his elbows, earning himself another shot through the temples, and fell back down onto his back, giving up his attempts at autonomy. It didn’t help. How did he let himself drink so much...it wasn’t like him. Maybe it was because he was angry...but at what? No no, angry? Was he… had he said something wrong? Was he upset…? He had no recollection whatsoe—

_I don’t want to die!_

Artyom’s stomach was already unsettled so the memory only struck him mildly; still, though… ignoring his headache Artyom shook a bit, trying to flush himself of last night’s “experience.” Shaking hadn’t been a good idea, obviously, and Artyom’s only respite came from angrily shoving the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, in weak attempts to subdue the immense pressure. Shallow kicks rocked his cot and he groaned to himself under his breath in his frustration as his sheets fell to the ground. He apparently groaned more loudly than he’d thought, and a rough bare hand grabbed his wrist, lightly and slowly pulling his left hand away from his face. Artyom squinted through his one uncovered eye, barely making out the figure above him in the low light. Oh it was— was it?

“Oi chuvak,” a chuckle came, “time to get up!”

Pavel was incredibly loud, far too early in the morning. Artyom pulled his arm from Pavel’s loose grip, covering his face again, and groaned, again, turning away and back onto his left side. Pavel laughed from behind him, when a cool and relaxing sensation fell on his face. Artyom opened his eyes again, straining them, to see a small tin bottle resting on his cheek, a tassel on its cap held in place by Pavel.

“Pills. They’ll help kill the headache— you’ll be groggy for a few hours though, dorogaya.”

Artyom clenched his jaw at Pavel’s mocking jabs, and snatched the thin hard bottle from his hands. He managed to sit up, with Pavel supporting his back, and screwed open the small pill case.

“Is there any water...?”

“Of course Artyomka— give me a minute.”

Artyom watched as Pavel traipsed haphazardly through the tent entrance, out to find a tap on the main platform. Artyom looked back down at the cartridge, screwing its cap back on, and let his eyes rest on the opposite side of the room. The two young military men had left maybe five minutes before Pavel had, and the third was missing without Artyom ever seeing their face. Oh— oh it was Pavel… Artyom chuckled, holding his forehead in his palm, relishing his own ignorance.

“The other guest was Pavel,” he continued to chuckle under his breath. When had he gotten up and dressed? Maybe Artyom’s hangover was more debilitating than he’d initially thought, if minutes were passing as quickly as they seemed...

“Still drunk, chuvak?”

Artyom whipped his still-sore head up from his private conversation, staring Pavel right in the eyes— he hadn’t even heard him open the tent. He held a small plastic cup, dirty around the edges, but it was filled with water. Who knew how clean it could be...but Teatr was a clean and wealthy station, so he didn’t worry much. They were still in Teatr...right? Artyom lifelessly took the cup from Pavel’s hand, and threw back two pills (despite the recommended dosage of one) and chased them with a swig of water. It was metallic-tasting, and went down roughly— both the water and the pills, which were too large for comfort. _Where does Pavel even get all this stuff...was the Red Line more prosperous than other stations lead on…?_ He wasn’t going to question it. Pavel put his hand out, palm up, waiting for Artyom, who swung his legs over the side of the cot. Grabbing Pavel’s outstretched hand he managed to pull himself to his feet, letting the last of his sheets fall to the dusty floor in an unkempt heap with the rest. Artyom continued to hold Pavel’s hand for balance, before realizing he was in nothing but his undershirt and dingy boxers. Quickly releasing Pavel, he whipped around to look at him.

“W-where are my clothes?”

“Under the cot, nice and folded. You were practically sweating _Puli_ last night, I couldn’t let you sleep in that heavy jacket.” Artyom cocked an eyebrow, not entirely sure of what Pavel just said.

“Puli...?”

“Ah— the drink. It’s a bourbon. Strong stuff, as you found out ch’erself bahaha.” Artyom gave a short hum of understanding, before carefully falling to his knees to grab his clothes. He could tell the pills definitely weren’t working yet, and bending over was a chore—  in fact as his first knee hit the ground Artyom lost his balance and feel forward some. There was an intense heat and pressure in his stomach and chest, and supporting his own weight simply couldn’t be done. He could only grab his pants before the pressure in his sinuses was just too much, and he had to break to sit on the edge of the cot, sweating and coughing up a storm. Pavel grabbed his jacket, rucksack, pullover and gloves for him, resting them at his side— he was already raring to go. Artyom managed to pull all his clothes on without much difficulty, though unfortunately the smell of alcohol still stained every article. Meticulously pulling on his boots, to make sure his socks wouldn’t bunch, suddenly Pavel began to tie them for him. Artyom yanked his foot away, embarrassed and mildly insulted.

“I’m not a child, Pavel.” Pavel looked up— he understood, but went on regardless.

“I know, I know, eh— bending down was a chore, no? I’m doing you a favor.” Artyom allowed him to go on, scrunching his nose at Pavel’s paternal attitude; it was almost endearing, but not enough. Blech.

“Keep doing me favors and I’ll owe you at this rate…”

“You already do, chuvak,” Pavel winked. He didn’t mean it, Artyom knew, but he’d felt himself an asshole, insinuating Pavel hadn’t been his only chance at rescue. He’d pulled him out of some pretty tight spots, in the short hours they’d known each other, and Artyom had so far treated him like a burden, and a nuisance.

“I know…” Artyom solemnly sighed. Pavel laughed, like always.

“Oi oi, no sad faces here eh, chuvak?” He patted his partner’s cheek lightly, again as if he were a child. Pavel rose to his feet, Artyom’s boots firmly tied, and pulled Artyom up with him. He threw on his pack, handing Artyom his own. He took it, securing the strap over his chest. Artyom twisted and pivoted at his waist, hearing and feeling a satisfying series of cracks and pops. Pavel was halfway out of the tent, when Artyom cut in:

“Oh, Pavel, where are we going now anyway? Are we going back through the bar?” his voice was cracked and dry, I need more water he thought.

Artyom tightened his watch, looking intently at his wrist to make sure everything was in order, and thus payed little actual attention to Pavel. Busy with his watch he missed Pavel’s split-second look of insecurity, and, lucky for Pavel, didn’t detect the crack in his voice.

“Ah, no. That bar is only open in the evening. We don’t have the time to wait, so I figured we’d take another route I know of— south, towards Tret'yakovskaya.” Pavel smiled and winked (was that too much?) and cooed for Artyom to follow. Artyom stared blankly at the tent exit, unsure of what to think; he wasn’t particularly familiar with this part of the metro, but he did know Paveletskaya was only a few hundred meters from Tret’yakovskaya… _why would Pavel risk that? Wasting time waiting for nightfall wouldn’t’ve been so bad would it?_ He shook himself clear, ow, and trudged through the exit.

 

_I trust him. We’ll be okay._

_   
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, those who've said they're excited to keep reading! I'm sorry if the intro and subsequent chapters sound at all stilted, I had initially planned on keeping this as a oneshot smut-fic, and decided late-in-the-game to progress with future chapters. I may be slow to update in the coming week, with school, but please look forward to future chapters!


	3. Stairwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel and Artyom leave the hotel, and Artyom finally questions Pavel's motives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This fic is being almost entirely reworked; the base content is very much the same, but the writing is being completely redone now that it's been a year since I last updated it. I'm happy to be back and continuing this fic! To continue the theme of new beginnings, the fic is also now titled процесс, changed from the former title жаждущий. Chapter three's redux is a general update with little change to the base content; enjoy!

They were on an upper level of the station, where only a hundred metres or so of cobblestone and rust separated them from the surface; dangerously close to an irradiated wasteland. The hotel tent was tucked away into a decorative embossment of the landing, and emptied out into what would have been a bustling marketplace, though this early in the morning it was nearly deserted save a shopkeep or two. Pavel’s boots echoed long across the hall, and Artyom did his best to soften his own steps out of embarrassment. Light on the upper level was even more sparse than down below; any working emergency lights were dimmed to conserve for the theater. Artyom watched the lights flicker, for once with wonder instead of fear. It was rare to see a station take such little care of their residents— for people to be able to live without fear of the darkness beyond their borders.  Had any bulbs flickered at VDNKh the way they were here, whoever was responsible would’ve been jailed or worse; no lights were allowed to fall into disrepair. But here… here you could confidently say: “It’s fine that they’re off for now. There’s a show tonight.” Artyom caught himself falling behind in his wanderlust, and jogged to catch up with Pavel. He’d said they would head south towards Tretyakovskaya, towards Venice, and Artyom pulled out his compass and journal to get a hold on the situation, but… something was wrong: his compass read “west.” He tapped Pavel on the shoulder and gave him a concerned scowl of confusion and worry.

“Hey, isn’t Venice to the south-east of Teatr? We’re going the exact opposite direction.” Pavel seemingly ignored the question, cleared his throat, and ducked inside a service exit that lead to a rickety flight of old iron stairs, what Artyom could only assume was once a maintenance shaft. The door was long missing, and there were no lights inside; it was invisible from the main upper landing, tucked into another side-passage. The hotel’s twin, parallel tunnel. From inside Artyom heard the echo of his voice:

“Come on D’Artagnan, down here!” Artyom paced for a moment at the top of the pile of rust and bolts, before carefully putting all his weight on the first step. It seemed it would hold, though the creaking and rocking didn’t lend him any confidence. Artyom began his descent.

“So Pavel—” he began. Pavel stood at the first landing between the first and second set of steps, looking up at Artyom.

“Yes yes, it’s true, Venice is south,” Pavel responded prematurely, “but we’re taking a separate tunnel— an access road, available to the workers in years past, that runs parallel to the main passageway. We need to go there first, lest we exit right into the heart of Venice, eh? The tunnel is at the bottom of this escape.” So it was a fire escape, ah. Artyom jumped the last two steps, hitting the ancient metal landing with a loud echoing clang. The sound startled Artyom himself, and earned him a reprimanding glare from Pavel.

“Careful, chuvak.” Pavel moved on ahead, down the next couple of steps under the landing. Artyom stalled again, considering what Pavel had said: .. _.lest we exit right into the heart of Venice, eh_?

“Pavel— Pavel what’s wrong with using the main tunnel to Venice? Surely it’d be safer.” Artyom ducked quickly on his first step, narrowly avoiding a cable that had come loose, and launched itself across the narrow stairwell, smashing into the concrete centerpole. Christ!

“A lot safer…” Pavel laughed from the second landing before he went quiet, and Artyom could barely see him between the stairs. When both of them were on the same landing (which Artyom had taken much more care to step lightly onto this time) Pavel was still in his own little world; lost in thought.

“I don’t _like_ Venice, really.” Pavel shrugged and gave a childish pout, before turning to descend the final flight. There was absolutely no way Artyom would let him get away with such a base excuse, and so he grabbed him. Snatching the cloth on Pavel’s shoulder, Artyom wrenched him back around so they were face to face.

“What’s wrong with it? You’re risking our lives because you don’t fancy the station? What? What is it Athos?” Artyom’s voice cracked and killed all credibility his argument had, but he wasn’t giving up.

“Ssh, Artyom!”  Artyom’s brow furled, and his nostrils flared at Pavel’s childish insolence.

“Ssh? Answer me then!” he pushed Pavel’s shoulder back, hard enough that he had to regain his balance, but not so much that he would fall. Pavel frustrated Artyom, but he certainly didn’t want to hurt him. They’d gone silent; the only sound was Pavel’s leather glove rubbing his shoulder. Their breathing wasn’t nearly enough to warrant an echo inside the stairwell. Pavel finally showed his usual smirk and it took all of Artyom’s willpower not to give in to his wily charms; forgive and forget.

“It doesn’t matter, Artyom, please. You just have to trust me...we can’t go straight through to Venice. It’s not as lovely as it’s made out to be.” Pavel’s voice was melancholy and low— his usual gusto was gone, and it was that detail that gave away his charming ruse. Artyom couldn’t pursue it… he would be shut down again, undoubtedly, and his head still pounded. It wasn’t worth the argument. Taking a deep breath, and attempting to placate himself with Pavel’s half-baked response, Artyom waved his arm, motioning for Pavel to continue, and rolled his eyes when his partner offered no apology. They tip-toed down the final few metres— this time Pavel stuck close, and offered guidance on each step like an overbearing mother. His patronizing tendencies were expected at this point, and Artyom could no longer find it in him to complain. The extra help was honestly appreciated, as much as it struck Artyom in his pride, and he couldn’t say he’d refuse it were they anywhere less familiar. Pavel had held him close when traversing putrid chasms, grabbed his hand when scaling walls and ducts, and he had even carried him to safety and comfort when he himself was just as intoxicated. Yet even after accepting each other’s company, this was perhaps too much: holding Artyom’s hand down the stairs and instructing him where to step. Amidst his vapid angry thoughts, distracted by bitterness, Artyom misjudged where the next step would be in the darkness and lurched forward, cascading towards the sharp and rusted platform below. His heart stopped and his stomach clenched as his hands shot forward, preparing to force his weight into the steps. But before he could barrel over and nearly snap his wrists, Pavel’s arm shot out, catching him at his stomach. Artyom stood half-suspended for a couple of seconds, sweat dripping down his temples, before he found his wits about him. Standing up, using Pavel’s shoulder as a support, Artyom dusted himself off and nodded in thanks at his partner on the step below. Pavel released his hand and continued down to the final landing, leaving Artyom alone for a moment or two. _I really do need him around_ he managed to admit to himself.

Shaking his head some, Artyom again jumped the last two steps; this time he’d hit concrete, and there was little echo. He looked towards the doorway, the actual door having been ripped off its hinges (years ago if the rust suggested much). Pavel stood on the small landing, a miniature replica of a larger public metro stop. Below, on the service tracks, lay a small electric cart barely large enough for two. The tunnel walls were short and cramped; designed for a small team of metro employees to meander through, and work as idly as they pleased, not for a train, or two soldiers with heavy, bulky gear. An old circuit box sat bolted to the wall, its contents ripped out and its shell mutilated by thieves. Artyom liked to hope, instead, by stalkers exhausting the underground. Pavel was inspecting the box, perhaps hoping for wire or tools, so Artyom traipsed over to the cart, and climbed down onto the rails. The cart was in use in recent months, and quite obviously; black diesel stains decorated the engine in the center, and the wooden seats were adorned with pig-leather cushions— something rare in the metro.

“Pavel have you used this?” Artyom sounded astonished; excited like a little kid whose father let them drive his car for the first time. Pavel side-eyed him from the box, not really paying much attention, and mumbled something under his breath.

“Pavel? I didn’t catch that!”

“Yes Artyom, I’ve used it. It’s nothing special.” Pavel continued his disinterested rummaging, searching for who-knows-what. If Pavel wasn’t finishing anytime soon, Artyom figured he could at least wait in luxury. He stepped onto the cart, which cried out weakly from the uneven weight, and Artyom quickly threw himself into the seat to quiet the beast. Pavel still hadn’t given up looking for whatever he needed, though he had moved from the circuit box and onto the closet next to it. Now Artyom could clearly hear Pavel’s characteristic swearing and clumsiness echoing off the walls of the tiny enclosure.

“Pavel what exactly are you looking for?” After some more swearing, and what Artyom could’ve sworn wasn’t even Russian, Pavel finally emerged from the closet. He wore a wider smile than Artyom had seen for some days, and jogged energetically over to the cart. Pavel jumped onto the cart clean off the platform— the wheels screeched and the whole thing nearly toppled over because of Pavel’s foolishness. Artyom couldn’t help but giggle a bit.

“Pavel what do you have there?” He motioned to Pavel’s tightly clenched fist, to which Pavel responded with a wink. He held it up infront of Artyom’s flashlight so it gleamed in the beams and finally declared:

“Got the key!”

 

 


	4. Notice and Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> N/A

I've been suffering from some very strong school-related depression, and upon completion of Metro: Last Light, I don't entirely feel comfortable with continuing this fic (as a result of a mix of depression and extreme uncomfortability with certain aspects of the ending I earned). I will however do my best to bring this fic to a (hopefully) decent end within 2 more chapters. I apologize if I had gotten anyone's hopes up. I hope you enjoy the final 2 chapters (which I hope to have written within a week). I'll be sure to post more Metro-related fan-fiction in the future, though I will no longer be writing based on Last Light. Thank you for reading as much as you have, I appreciate all commentary and hits. Thank you.


End file.
